Little Miss B-O-R-I-N-G

Name: Madison WhiteAge: 4 weeksReviewer: Donald Corner

I once watched Madison’s father stumble out of a dive bar with a leathery old whore so he could sodomize her in the back seat of his Jetta. Back then, I thought I was witnessing the final, sordid aria of my friend's operatic downward spiral, but what I could never have predicted was that his true denouement would be less Icarus, more common animal dying in the woods.

To be blunt, spending a recent afternoon with Madison and her father, whom I used to call friend, was to watch a once vibrant (if flawed) man slowly decay and putrefy before my very eyes. Honestly, how he could be so enamored by this child’s tired, clichéd charms simply boggles the sophisticated mind!

This is a man who in the ripeness of vitality would pass entire weekends with me, sitting on futons, playing video games, discussing Sartre over Pabst. He was so full of life! And now, he swoons, and gushes, and furrows concerned brows every time Madison smiles, which is so obviously just gas.

Indeed, his only interest is toting this lump of flesh around like a prize, as if it were some great feat to knock up his brother's fiancée: she who serves up her cheap coochie like so much fetid haddock at a casino buffet. And in his mania to provide Madison with the luxuries that will keep her piercing whine at bay, he misinterprets her laughably unconvincing performance as genuine love – rather than the abject neediness of a credit-card draining parasite who will inevitably grow up to despise him.

Perhaps Madison should at least try to consider her part in this spectacle. Sure, it’s not technically her fault that she’s selfish and boring. Or is it? I'd suggest she sleep longer, or more soundly, or even shake things up and start pushing out teeth. But for now, she’s simply an anchor with booties slowly drowning a man who doesn't even know he doesn't want her. And until such time as she becomes sufficiently engaging, wild horses won't drag me back to the ramshackle condo where the court says her father can dote on her every third weekend. I strongly advise others to maintain their distance also.

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Total Linguistic Cripple

Name: Tyler HallAge: 15 monthsReviewer: Hannah Parker

I met Tyler Hall last week. He was friendly and all, but I’m sorry, he was clearly told my name at least four times. It’s not like it’s hard. "Hannah." HA-nah. Not "Ha-Ha." What’s so funny? Somebody tell you a stupid knock-knock joke, brat? Please.

I mean, sure, he’s only 15 months, and yeah, I know he can barely walk, but am I supposed to just nod and smile like a fool while this little cretin BUTCHERS my name – right to my face no less? I think not. When it comes to my name, I’m like the French, OK? You say it wrong, and I’m gonna get majorly pissy until you say it right. Which is why if I had it to do all over again, yeah, I would still pinch his ear until he cried.

Anyway, it’s not like Tyler seems to have a problem saying "ma-ma" or "da-da." Like those are harder than my name? What, is he retarded or something?

And what really blows me away is how his parents enable that linguistic cripple. At one point during our soul-withering two-hour encounter, Tyler stumbled up to me, grabbed my forearm with his sticky, lint-covered paws, looked straight in my eyes, and urgently shouted, "KEY-KAH O’TAIR! KEY-KAH O’TAIR!" Ummmm - so I’m just sitting there, like, WTF, when his mother – a woman I actually used to respect – says, "Yes Tyler! The kitty cat IS on the chair!"

COME. FUCKING. ON. "The kitty cat is on the chair???" So what’s "Goo-goo-ga-ga" mean? "Go get my goddamned Gameboy?"

It’s sad. He’s cute for now, but with parents like that, I only give Tyler another five years before he’s just another drooler on the short bus. Bummer.

I mean, this kid was born to crap. And I'm not being figurative about that, either. I'm telling you, the very second Tommy slid out of my sister-in-law's lady hole, he opened up from both ends and hollered like hell while pinching off a trucker-sized loaf right in that lezzie midwife’s skanky hands. I swear, I may be biased because I'm his uncle and all, but to me, Tommy was hollering out to the very angels, "Hello, world! Meet the Master Scat-Blaster, the Kaiser of Scheiße, because I'm here to POOOOP!"

And Tommy didn't even bother with any of that pansy-ass meconium shit, either. This was an honest-to-Moses full-sized grown-up dookie that he dropped off at the pool, and I could even be showing it to you if my dingbat sister-in-law hadn't gone through that whole Brooke Shields, woe-is-me, addle-headed postpartum hoo-ha. You'd THINK that when someone goes though the trouble of getting something BRONZED for you, you could at LEAST keep track of it, right?

No use crying over spilled turds, I guess. And it's not like the kid isn't making 'em fresh daily. Hell – several loads a day, even, and I should know! Since my sis-in-law went off to that crystal-licking, touchy-feely state facility for a few months of "recovery", I've been looking after Tommy during the day. And every time we go to the playground, ALL the moms are all up in my face, saying how I should put the kid in a fresh Huggie BEFORE I bring him out to play with their precious Dylans and Emilys and Ambercrombies. Well I say nuts to that. If other people can’t see the hulking bulge of Tommy's prodigious output, how are they supposed to know that their kids' loins will NEVER measure up? Jealousy, thy name is unsoiled nappy!

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Predictability Incarnate

Name: Sarah JamesAge: 6 monthsReviewer: Diana Van Horne

At first, I thought Sarah would be the quintessence of the perfect baby – soft, bubbly, occasionally adorable in that tired way babies normally are. Mainly, just a slumbering package that blinks, yawns, and does not stink of rancid milk. Ho-no! Sarah is hardly what was advertised. Occasionally, she attempts to impress with bits she obviously feels are interesting (but aren’t) – and invariably fails. The grabbing the foot routine is so done, and to follow it up with the fist in the mouth gag is completely derivative of more entertaining babies. And Earth to Sarah – flapping your arms like a Special Olympics sprinter engulfed in flames does NOT pass for waving.

In short, Sarah is less than enthralling to behold, especially given how her reputation for cuteness so precedes her. Holding Sarah is a chore. She slouches terribly, and demands far too much rocking. And her moods? Forget to burp her, and the monster shrieks like a frantic raccoon trapped in a dumpster. A little self control? Hellooooo? As for fashion sense, all I can say is that child looks like a laundry hamper of pink ugly. It's always distressing to be presented with a little creature, and not share its proud parents’ delusional faith in its irresistible huggability. Sarah is proof positive that just because a baby might look vaguely cute in its carriage, that doesn't automatically mean it’s a good idea to squander your valuable time and attention on what more often than not turns out to be nothing more than a bouncing bundle of disappointment.

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Jeepers Creepers – What a FREAKER!

Name: Johnny WashburnAge: 5 monthsReviewer: Terri Baker

I’ve been babysitting since I was only 11, which was like, three whole years ago, so you can believe me when I say I know LOTS about babies. Like, did you know that when you push really hard on that gross soft spot on their heads, that you’re basically like smooshing their brains? You totally are.

Anyway, I’ve been babysitting Johnny Washburn for like a couple months, every Friday when his parents go eat dinner at Pineglen Golf Club. At first I thought Johnny was OK because he was pretty quiet and stuff, but after last week, now I think he’s totally the CREEPIEST baby EVER!

When I got there at 6 o’clock, Johnny was asleep. So I’m all just watching the O.C. and doing Geometry homework on the phone with my best friend Tina. But then when I get up to pour another vodka cranberry, I hear Johnny like totally bawling his eyeballs out, so I’m all L8TR to Tina, and I bring him downstairs so he’ll stop crying. But he doesn’t. He keeps crying and crying and crying, so loud that I get this wicked bad headache – like totally POUNDING. So I go and get five Vicodin from the big stash I accidentally found at the back of Mrs. Washburn's underwear drawer.

So then I’m like sitting on the couch holding Johnny, and he’s still screaming, and screaming, and screaming. But I guess I must have been really super tired from field hockey practice or something, because I totally took a disco nap.

Here’s the thing though, when I wake up like an hour later, it’s totally quiet. And then I’m like, what’s that funny tickle feeling? And that’s when I look down and see that Johnny pulled up my shirt and gro-bra and is mad SUCKING ON MY BOOB! I was like, “OMIGOD! GET OFF ME, YOU GROSS LITTLE KINKY SEX FREAK!!”

I used to think I liked ALL babies, but Johnny Washburn changed that. I’ll bet that someday he’s totally going to go to PRISON!

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Pint-Sized Philistine

Name: Joshua GreyAge: 22 monthsReviewer: Cassandra Matthews

Let it be known that I tried my best to be patient with Joshua. But after watching a tenth sheet of construction paper endure a kind of vicious gang-rape by his chubby crayons, I could hold my peace no longer. After all, how can I serve the Gods of Art if I refrain from dispensing unvarnished criticism? How can there be growth in the absence of honesty? To wit: Joshua’s "drawings" are abhorrent. Trite and precious, he lacks discipline, craft, or even, dare I say, talent. His brutish scrawling, uninspired sense of color, and crude, blunt strokes represent the very height of self-indulgence. Plainly, he sucks. And yet somehow more offensive than the output itself is the bright-eyed, self-satisfied way he presents this rubbish, like a prodigy unveiling a masterpiece. I just don't know what to say. Honestly, he should thank me for running the trash through a shredder. I don't really care if it was a picture of (shudder!) me. Do I look like a stroke patient's art therapy project? I think not!

The canvas is an infinite space upon which true artists impart their subconscious, taming the blank chaos with color, depth, richness and meaning. What Joshua did, instead, was revel in a self-induced Crayola seizure, then have the audacity to present it as art. Honestly, why not simply staple a price tag to a soiled Pampers and call it art? If you want my professional opinion, Joshua would do well to abandon the quest for self-expression while he’s behind, and begin actively preparing for his destined future in the realm of all that is blue collar and menial.

On a positive note, Joshua has been blessed with the opportunity to have his work evaluated by a holder of MULTIPLE community college art program certificates. (ME!)

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Dinner Theatre Disaster

Name: Katrina DalrippleAge: 9 monthsReviewer: Fran Seranno

Mine was a chance encounter with Katrina. I had reservations to dine alone at Outback Steakhouse, where I’d planned to enjoy a quiet South Beach-friendly steak salad and finally finish the new Jonathon Safran Foer novel. I had no idea Katrina’s parents would be there, let alone that they would coax me away from my blessed solitude to join them in bearing witness to her allegedly endearing antics. It was like being forced into a 90-minute layover in Yawnsburg. How could I be expected to enjoy my Bloomin' Onion, what with that child staring at me like some kind of bug-eyed alien princess perched atop her high chair throne?

And since when did her parents, two previously tolerable people, become fluent in Moronese? I’ve never heard so much inane clucking, cooing, and kissy noises – all in the name of getting Katrina to perform for me. And when she finally did, when her mother was able to rouse her puny little mind from whatever fog it was lost in, what did she do? She gummed up a chicken nugget, spat it out on the table in one huge meaty teardrop, then scraped it back up and scarfed it down. Granted, it was a daring performance – fully worthy of the Bronx Zoo gorilla habitat – but it was also disgusting, and forgive me, but just one act of that little "show" would have sufficed. Not four. In the future, Katrina would do well to diversify her encores, maybe with time-tested crowd pleasers like "I point at shiny things" or "I make adorable grunting sounds while shitting my pants."

In short, despite a lackluster start, Katrina did succeed in demonstrating a micron or two of talent. Whether she can harness it and funnel it into something more than a few cheap parlor trick remains to be seen. Unfortunately, this reviewer won’t be back to find out.

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Double Creature Feature

Names: Crystal and Kimmy FriedmanAge: 5 daysReviewer: David Lee

Just the thought of twins has always reminded me of those old Wrigleys DoubleMint chewing gum TV commercials. You know, the ones with all those different sets of sexy identical twins jiggling around in short-shorts while that song goes “double your pleasure, double your fun” – or some shit like that.

As someone who hasn't ever actually met any identical twins, I guess watching those ads a few zillion times back in the day must’ve made me think that ALL twins are good-looking. So I should probably be kinda grateful that my nieces Crystal and Kimmy came into the world last week to completely shatter that dumb-assed idea.

Basically, these are some heinous little chicks. I’m talking bald, wrinkly, toothless little doggies with scrunched-up pug faces. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. The Olsen twins were some FUGLY little bitches too back on Full House, but they turned into some majorly taggable bulimia bunnies. Yeah, well trust me, I know what I’m talking about, and THESE twins are no Olsens. I mean, you should see that FAT on them. Think Michelin Man fat – with weeping heat rash hives spilling out of every last crevice – and weird little Vienna sausage fingers.

Funny thing is, their mother (my sister) is actually pretty hot. How could she not be? She’s like a chick version of me, right? Which is why I always figured she would have good-looking kids. Of course, that was before she married Alvin the dork-o-tron accountant. Actually, come to think of it, I guess I’m surprised these girlies didn’t slip outta the coochie already rocking Vitalis comb-overs and hernia trusses.